0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale CircusThe dust in the courtyard tasted of chalk and old iron, a flavor that coated my tongue every time I tried to speak. I stood before Silas, the old man whose hands were as gnarled as the roots of the oak tree that marked the boundary of our manor, and I forced the practice sword into my grip. My arms shook, not from the cold, though the summer air was thin and brittle, but from the hollow ache...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe rain hammered against the high, narrow windows of the scriptorium, a relentless drumming that seemed to count down the hours until dawn. Elias sat alone in the drafty room, the heavy pale wool cloak of his late mentor draped over his shoulders, its weight a familiar anchor against the creeping chill of his own failing heart. He was forty years old, an inquisitor with a promotion to Bishop...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe ink is still wet on the page, and the damp air of the dormitory clings to the paper like a ghost’s breath. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle, my hand trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of what I have found. It has been three weeks since the mill closed its doors for good, the final whistle blowing a note of finality that I could not abide. I found the object in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe silk was going to hold, I told her, or it was going to tear, and there was no third option for a fabric that had been dead for forty years. Sarah didn’t look up from the ledger. She was cross-referencing the accession numbers with the environmental logs, her pen scratching a steady, rhythmic line against the paper. The sound was sharp, brittle, like a match being struck in a quiet room. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe mist in Oakhaven did not rise; it lay, thick and grey as wet wool, pressing against the windowpanes of the cottage until the world outside was merely a suggestion. Elias Thorne sat at the kitchen table, his hands trembling as he held the iron knife, watching the candlelight flicker against the damp stone walls. His wife, Mara, slept in the next room, her breathing shallow and ragged, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe dust in the scriptorium tasted of iron and old rot. Elias Thorne sat hunched over the desk, his magnifying glass trembling in a hand that no longer obeyed his will. He was forty years old, but his eyes felt eighty. The cipher on the parchment before him, known to the town of Oakhaven as the Pale Garden, was a maze of symbols that shifted and blurred at the edges. He needed to solve it. Not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe parchment lay flat on the obsidian table, its surface slick with the condensation of the Aetheric Court’s eternal twilight, a document that Silas Vane, the Magistrate of the Third Circle, had spent the last three hours attempting to decipher without the aid of his tongue, which had been severed in a dream that recurred with the mechanical precision of a clockwork automaton. The paper was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe wind did not blow; it pushed. It forced its way through the keyhole of the study door, a cold, wet thing that smelled of damp earth and old paper. Elias Thorne, fifty-two, sat at his desk, his fingers trembling as he arranged the scattered documents of the "Pale Echo" case. He was a retired detective, a title that held no weight in the town of Harrowgate, where he was viewed not as a man of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe trunk was too heavy for the stairs, and Arthur Vane’s left hand shook so violently against the leather handle that the latch clicked like a loose tooth. It was November, 1893, and the air in the family manor smelled of damp wool and old money, a scent that had begun to sour with his father’s debts. He was thirty-two years old, a junior clerk who had spent a decade organizing other men’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek